


A SHORT ONE AND A MERRY

by Cerulean_Spork



Series: Shatterdome Heldensagen [1]
Category: KIPLING Rudyard - Works, Pacific Rim (2013), R.E.M., The Iliad - Homer, The Unicorns, Wilfred Owen - Fandom
Genre: Angst and Humor, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-25 23:57:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/959134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerulean_Spork/pseuds/Cerulean_Spork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anchorage Shatterdome, long before Knifehead, where the Pan-Pacific Defense Corp's newest Jaeger pilots react unpredictably to the formal private commissioning ceremony; Team Hot Dads contemplates the future as well as the past...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A SHORT ONE AND A MERRY

It was a solemn (and uncomfortable) moment, or at least it was supposed to be. Everyone stood expectantly waiting in the Drivesuit Room, as the final fitting of the completed armour was made, and the new Jaeger crew, now officially commissioned with the emplacement of the silver links of their spinal clamps, were traditionally supposed to salute and report themselves for duty.

Instead, after a long moment of staring at each other, both Beckets began skipping in place with extravagant glee, as they shouted out a strange call-and-response chant:

"We're **never** gonna stop!"  
 _"I think I wanna **stop!"**_  
"I write the **songs!"**  
 _ **"I** write the songs!"_  
 **"You** say I'm doin' it **wrong!"**  
 _"You **ARE**_ doin' it wrong!"

and concluding with a slow-motion shoving match. Mr. Choi was obliged to pull the collar of his uniform blouse up to his eyebrows to maintain the fiction of decorum, the senior Pons System tech said wonderingly, "Oh, so THAT's why there's a space between them in the Conn-Pod," and all the others were staring, agog.

Unable to give adequate voice to his feelings, the Marshal had been left with only a furrowed brow and a sense that the Jaeger Program had quite possibly made the **worst** decision in the history of decisionmaking since decisions began, leaving all the ones in those old "Famous Military Fiascos" books in the dust.  **Or** the opposite, but he wasn't quite sure.

"I'm **Rarity!"**  
 **"Twilight Sparkle!"**  
 **"I** wanna be Twilight Sparkle!"  
"Too **slow,** little bro!"  
 **"TWILIGHT SPARKLE IS BEST PONY!!"**

at which point the shoving match ended up with Raleigh on the floor shouting, "Oh **geez** , dumbass, you're gonna **break** it!" and rubbing with frantically exaggerated concern at imaginary scuffs on his armour.

"It **CAN'T** break, **doofus** , didn't you listen to the **lectures?"** Yancy clapped a hand to his forehead before  waving both arms, look-what-I-have-to-deal-with, at which point his brother grabbed his ankle and neatly pulled him back over on top of him, arms flailing, in a scuffle that ended with Raleigh in a headlock, Yancy's knuckles scrubbing into his hair.

"Mr. Becket, Mr. Becket -- **what,** exactly, are you two doing?"

"Testing the armor fit, Sir! Gotta be sure we can move **freely** in it, right?"

What followed was an attempt at a luchador move, at which point several of the DS team ended up on the floor themselves, not even trying not to laugh as they leaned against the consoles and storage units for support.

"This isn't how it **usually** goes, is it?" someone asked in a stage whisper.

"May I **remind** everyone," Pentecost raised his voice, even more sternly, "that the penalty for **distributing imagery** of our Jaeger pilots in states of undress is **expulsion from the Corps?** " (One of only a **handful** of offenses that could bring down such a hammerblow of doom on a first infraction, not all of which were in any other modern military's conduct code, or **enforced** if they were, but the Pan-Pacific Defense Corps took its mottos of Peer Respect and Common Decency seriously.) "As of **this instant,** that protocol is operational in the Drivesuit Room **at all times.** Understood?"

There was no way in hell he was going to be able to stop this from getting out, destroying security cam footage was another one of those fatal offenses and he could not hold himself above the law, but he could hope to delay it (and pray that any phone footage was too blurry and out of focus, odds of **that** were good) by appealing to Shatterdome pride -- that was the **only** thing that ever worked to keep that barn door closed in the first place, humans being but human -- because he **really** didn't need the phone calls from Washington questioning his judgment again.

Not when he was questioning it **himself** , as it was.

"It's okay, we're decent--OW! **BAKA!** Not **you** , Sir--"

**"That** is under **debate."** Marshal Pentecost could have given the Buckingham Palace Guard lessons in keeping a straight face, by now -- but the Grenadiers didn't have the advantage of years of seeing Kaiju up close and personal, or the Beckets, either.

At "Robots _**Gangnam**_ Style" the Drivesuit Crew Chief had to hang onto a pipe and whimper for air to hold off cataplexy herself, old NASA hand and MIT alum that she was, and thus well used to the hacks and pranks and _folies_ that imaginative young people with too much technology on their hands could get up to.

He cleared his throat, and the frenzy stopped.

"Right when they were getting to the **good** part," someone muttered behind him, but his Rangers could be Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer on their **own** time, even if it did do a fine job of demonstrating the armourers' skill in fitting them out.

He'd a little speech prepared, the one he always gave the new pilot pairs and the drivesuit crews, the one about being a credit to the human race, about how much skill and dedication on their part it represented being matched with how much skill and dedication on the Drivesuit team's side and how much study and dedication on the part of thousands of other people they'd never see, creating the Pons and all the rest of it, all united in the common goal of protecting Earth, but sheer **surprise** combined with the effort in keeping his expression inscrutable had driven it clean out of his brain.

"Well, lads, I don't know **why** they'd put **Jaeger pilots** in **shiny white outfits** but then again, nobody in Washington's ever seen a Kaiju, **or** a Conn-Pod, up close. These good people have worked overtime to kit you up properly, so **try** and make every scrape and scuff you get on 'em **count,** all right?"

Both Beckets snapped to attention, like ducklings on the parade ground.

**"Yes, Sir,** Marshal Pentecost! Ranger Becket reporting for duty, **Sir!"** they chorused.

If it had been anyone else, he'd have suspected **irony** , as the glow of dedicated earnestness on their faces had that over-the-top edge that he'd learned to recognize early, in school, from those squeaky-clean students beloved of teachers who were right bastards when their backs were turned, and mocked them savagely for never catching on -- a perception that had served him no less well in the RAF, what with all the bright young public school lads with their Old School Ties who thought they could get away with anything short of murder, and maybe even **that** , if they just looked soulful and sincere enough at their superior officers. It worked often **enough**.

It had **never** worked on him. Some of them eventually figured it out, and stopped hating him; the rest -- well, they learned not to try it **on** him, **or** in front of him, and you took what you could get.

But the Beckets -- oh, the Beckets' sincerity **shone**. They simply couldn't contain the pure joy they felt at getting their hearts' desire ( **this** , their hearts' desire!) and the way it had come out -- well, that was the Becket brothers for you. They'd always been in synch, but **now** they had the technology to make it mirror-perfect.

**Which** he had given them, with his own hands.

_**So there you go, Mr. Pentecost -- too late to back out once you've pulled the throttle back, you've got to keep going or crash and burn! No second-guessing yourself -- AND your choices -- now. They don't DESERVE that.** _

Slowly pacing the silent, gray, and very cold bounds of the helidrome at dusk, looking every inch the serious and brooding CO on an important official call -- **far** too important to be broken in on for anything short of a Kaiju alert -- Stacker Pentecost related the day's events to his oldest surviving friend and comrade because there was not a single soul within earshot, or indeed on this side of the Pacific, to whom he could in conscience and the maintaining of good order vent his frustrations. Or his fears.

Funny, how here he had an entire fleet of Gundams, basically, at his beck-and-call, and the fact that he could hold a **real** Communicator in his hands, one that was a Tricorder too, so that they could **see** as well as hear each other, was what still **amazed** him. It was all what you were used to growing up; those who could remember the days of coin operated phones -- what a horrible shock it had been to discover that the ones in the United States **didn't return your change!** \-- would always find it a wonder, those who had never known anything else would **never** understand it, and yet both of them could find Jaegers perfectly normal, because there had **always** been the stories...

"Out of **all** of the Jaeger pilot candidates, out of **all** the nations, **I** end up with the **class clowns,** Herc." Over the streaming cam on his phone, Ranger Hansen looked at him as through a dust-streaked window, only the slightest lag and breakup right now -- a window from a blue Oceanic afternoon with sunny clouds and little boats scudding about their respective elements, secure in the shadow of their Shatterdome -- and raised his eyebrows.

"You picked 'em **yourself** , mate."

"Thanks.Thanks **ever** so much."

"Hey, I **try,"** said the Australian pilot, grinning.

"I don't even **know** what half of that was! **Tendo** claims it's some terribly obscure old vid, he'll try to scout out a copy -- but he's not sure that'll make much more sense of it. Performance art, I guess."

"Nerves, maybe?"

"I don't think they **have** any. Children! I'm **giving** children weapons as powerful as the enemy, and sending them out unsupervised, trusting they'll be responsible enough to **train** their power in the **right direction."**

"And you're **not** sure of 'em now?"

"Herc, it's **supposed** to be a moment when the great responsibility of it all finally falls upon your shoulders. **Literally**. When they first set your clamp on -- a Jaeger pilot should take it as **seriously** as a dubbing -- **more** seriously, when knighting these days means a medal and your name a blip in the media -- and they **do a little dance!"**

"And pro wrestling moves, don't forget the pro wrestling, you said."

**"Never."** He sighed, thinking over the scene with the dispassion of a pilot making a post-mission debriefing, instead of fixating on the ridiculous chaos of all. The image of Raleigh Becket holding his older brother up by the ankles and bopping him up and down exaggeratedly -- while making **very** sure his skull never came near the floor, and Yancy perfectly unconcerned through it all -- stuck out, as being both a terrifying display of careless brute strength, and awe-inspiring in terms of finesse and muscular control -- **and** human care -- once you took away the mere circumstances surrounding it.

It was a bit like taking Pyrenees puppies and giving them plasma cannons to drive off the wolves...

"No, they were **most** careful not to hurt each other **or** come near anyone else, in that -- **frolick.** Nor risk damage to any equipment or the 'Suit Room furnishings. It's not **that.** They're **very** situationally aware, I'll give 'em that."

"Then you're worried they won't look after **themselves** in the heat."

There was only silence.

**"Stacker."**

Pentecost sighed.

"Yes--" He frowned, thoughtfully. **"No.** Not **really**. I remember Luna telling me stories that Grandad told her, about how the lads in his squadron would horse about like a bunch of kittens on catnip between raids, but they'd **always** pull it together when the balloon went up. I just . . ." He trailed off.

"I know," Ranger Hansen said, with a sad understanding in his voice, and he was the only soul on the planet that he could bear such pity from. " **Griffindors.** At least **I'm** not stuck flying a desk when the alarm goes off. But you **trained** them, you **chose** them, you made sure they got the **absolute best** when it comes to weapons and equipment and armour and info -- **we** coulda been so lucky, ourselves," and his jaw tightened with old, never-forgotten anger over Operation Slipper.

"Yeah. It's only -- 'Beware the **jaws** that **bite** , the **claws** that catch!' -- I don't know if they can **hear** an old man's warnings, or if they think **simulator battles** are going to **prepare** them for what they'll meet when the next bell rings on **our** watch."

"Well, they'll learn better fast, in that case. **Stop worryin',** mate, you can't do anything about it that you haven't **already done.** So **take** a breather, **call** your girl, do something **fun** for a change--"

**"Fun?** What is this 'fun' you speak of? I know not your Earthling words."

"I'm **sure** there's a karaoke bar in Anchorage, they've got one at Antarctica Station, did y'know? You can do it with a **cell phone** any more."

"If you **ever** suggest **Jaeger Karaoke** to my pilots, I will **hunt you** to the **ends of the earth,** Hercules Hansen. Captain Ahab won't even be in the **rankings,"** because he didn't need to say, "But **you** won't be there," and they both knew it.

When Herc stopped laughing he said, "Got to sign off here, there's **paperwork** still calling my name. How come we **still** have paperwork, eh? They told us we'd be **done** with paperwork in The Future, didn't they?"

"Said we'd have **flying cars** , too. But we got the **robots** , at least." ** _\--PIty the price was so high!_**

"Right, right. Give my best to **Tendo** for me," and Pentecost assured him of that with a smile, glad as always that his longest-surviving friend and staunch ally, the only one left from their first ragged rallying to form a cryptic international coalition with a hope of swaying the relevant people, had never had any jealousy of his newest one, but instead regarded him as equal and vouched for from the first, unlike in all outward regards as the two men were. They had all been through so much pain together, of all human beings they were the **last** to inflict any more upon each other.

"And Stacker -- _**three cheers for the red, white, an' blue,** _ eh?" The wicked edge in the Australian's grin struck, sudden and unexpected, an answering **spark** in Pentecost's soul, and he said, conversational at first, "That's **great** \-- starts with an **earthquake** , birds and snakes, an **aeroplane** , and Lenny Bruce is _**not afraid--"**_

He saw his friend's abrupt shock at the lines -- so familiar, so **forbidden** by common decency nearly everywhere along the Pacific, now -- and wondered if he'd made yet another bad call, but then, just like before the War began--

_"Eye of a hurricane,_  
 _listen to yourself churn_  
 _world serves its own needs--_  
 _dummy, serve your own needs!"_

No matter **when** it was sung, the words **made sense** even as they made **no** sense at all -- even though the sense was different every time, was different already when they'd met in Los Angeles after RIMPAC '04 from when R.E.M. had written it, and was changed again wholly now as the whole world had been changed around them...but still it **spoke** , as good prophecy should--

_"--representing seven games_  
 _in a government for **hire**_  
 _in a **combat site"**_

_**(Oh it's Tommy this an' Tammy that--)** _

_"with the Furies breathing_  
 _down_  
 _YOUR_  
 **_NECK--"_ **

and if their eyes were both watering at this point, well, a temperature of only 3° C on one side of the glass and a sharp sea breeze on the other will do that, won't it?

_"--save yourself_  
 _serve yourself--"_

_"World serves its **own** needs_  
 _listen to your heart **bleed**_  
 _Tell me with the Rapture and the Reverend and the Right!"_

_"Right you_  
 _vitriolic_  
 _patriotic_  
 _slam_  
 _fight_  
 _bright light_  
 **_feeling_ **  
**_pretty_ **  
**_PSYCHED"_ **

So much **anger** , so **many** years of anger at the old men, the ones who sent them off to shoot down strangers, be shot down by strangers, and all for what? **Never** a word of truth, never a word **of** it and never **had** been, and U.N.I.T. jokes only took you so far, when what it was was a **rage** , a roar against the Invisible Machine that had been building since reluctant Hector holding his own baby boy that he would never see again and all for the anger and pride of gods and kings and priests, all willing to exploit the follies of young people to buy their oh-so- **great** war--

_"It's the end of the world as we know it"_  
 _"It's the end of the world as we know it"_  
 _"Its the end of the world as we know it"_  
 _"And I feel **fine!"**_

wasn't all irony, which was one reason why this was too potent a song to be sung any more. But then, it never **had** been, really.

_"Six o clock_  
 _TV hour_  
 _don't get caught in foreign towers"_

That one **still** caught in the throat, almost two decades later, even after K-Day, because of what it **did** to us all, **not** because there hadn't been worse dealt out by the hour in London, and Berlin, and Tokyo, and Coventry, and Dresden, and . . .

_"Slash and burn_  
 _**return**_  
 _listen to yourself churn--"_

It wasn't like he'd needed any MORE reasons to stay in uniform even when off post, but getting shot in the back for running for the train in mufti **wasn't** how he'd ever wanted to end his career, even if it **wasn't** the career he would have chosen had he been given **choice** in the matter.

_"Lock him in_  
 _uniform_  
 _book burning_  
 _blood letting_  
 _every motive **escalate** \--"_

_**"I spread my wings and keep my promise"**_ \-- the motto of his former squadron, the only part of that life he still held onto, not as an empty boasting slogan but a **beacon** to rekindle every day, every hour. . .

_"Light a candle_  
 _light a motive_  
 _step down--"_

**Everything** changed, and **nothing** changed. But **no one** in the old world would have put two laughing children in a giant war machine -- _**we gave them a Bolo for Heaven's sake!**_ \--and sent them out on errantry, not without **breaking** them of it first, and turning that laughter **cruel**...

_"Step down_  
 _watch your heel_  
 _crush_  
 _crush_  
 _uh-oh--"_

_**"Through hardship to the stars"**_ \-- but whose the hardship, and whose the **stars?**

_"This means_  
 _no fear!_  
 _cavalier!_  
 _renegade!_  
 _steer clear!"_  
  
Funny how he'd never even **listened** to rap -- "Not having that garbage in MY house," he'd said, and so much more (and Mum had said nothing, then or **ever** ) -- before he and Herc accidentally went home with each other's iPods after RIMPAC '06, and now **both** their playlists were full not only of rap but metal and Benjamin Britten and Tallis. . . still hadn't fully convinced the other man on Elgar's merits, but there was time. . .

_"A tournament_  
 _a tournament_  
 _a tournament of **LIES"**_

was both of them because my GOD all those **years** of it, **all those bloody years of it** and STILL battling against the tide, even with a whole Corps of their own at their backs, even with the Kaiju scrabbling at the door--

_"Offer me solutions_  
 _offer me alternatives_  
 **_And I_ **  
**_DE_ **  
**_CLINE!"_ **

_"It's the end of the world as we know it"_  
 _"It's the end of the world as we know it"_  
 _"its the end of the world as we know it"_  
 _"and I feel fine!"_

The a capella duet floated out over two halves of the same ocean, heard only by the two who needed that music most just now:

_"It's the **end of the world** as we know it..."_  
 _"It's time I had some time alone..."_  
 _"It's the end of the world **as we know it.**.."_  
 _"It's time I had some time alone..."_  
 _It's **the end of the world as we know it..."**_  
 _"It's time I had some time alone..."  
"...and **I feel fine"**_

_**"I feel fine--"** _

\--Time to let it **go,** let it all go into the night, into the wind and the sea, time to let it **burn** with the old world that birthed it, cool to ashes and blow away...

_**(If only it were that easy!)** _

Hansen let out a long, slow breath when they had finished, and his hard Nordic face uncrimped in that rare sweet smile of his for an instant.

"G'night, Stacker. Thanks for callin'," he said, as mild and quiet as he always was, as if he had not been shouting his **own** old grievances into the clear skies over Sydney's helipad, against Empire and Army and Father and the grinding weight of words and harsh ideals and harsher passions that men were expected to pass on to one another down the generations, with all his heart only now.

"Thanks for **listening,"** and they rang off together.

As Marshal Pentecost turned his steps across the almost-frosting tarmac towards the 'Dome doors he watched the helicopter crews continuing their neverending labours, but nothing looked wrong, nothing out of order, none of the frantic motions that bespoke something **about** to be a problem if it wasn't one yet.

Nobody looked furtively his way hoping to avoid his eye, or came puffed up seeking his **attention** \-- most of the crew simply kept about their work as if he weren't even there because they were so entirely focused on it, though the men and women who noticed him gave him a cordial smile, or nod, or a cheerful "Good evening, Sir," in which ever language they felt most suitable.

Here and there he received a salute, and always returned it; the unofficial recruitment slogan of the PPDC might be "All of the glory, none of the bollocks," (or **_bullshit,_** depending on which side of the ocean you were) but it was up to each member of the Corps to determine for themselves where they drew the line between formality and nonsense, and it was not up to him to judge any one for it. As the standard recruiter's welcoming speech went:

"The Pan-Pacific Defense Corps assumes that **as** you are all **adults"** \-- some North American recruiters substituting by preference a more emphatic "grown-arse adults" as per local usage -- "you are **entirely** capable of doing your laundry, sorting your own socks as **you** see fit, making your bunk in a manner that is both efficient **and** tidy, and in all respects generally **keeping track** of your own uniforms and personal hygiene."

The implication, strongly subtexted, being that IF this was going to be beyond you, you probably didn't **want** to be made responsible for welding torches, helicopter blades, industrial ovens, high voltage lines, or twenty-story war machines, **not really**.

"If you are **not** capable of these things, your bunkmates will sort you out quickly. We do **not** have midnight underwear drawer inspections, the **Kaiju** do not care if I or any other officer can see our **reflection** in your boots, and **all** of us have better things to do with our spare change than bounce it off your **mattress**. In addition, your hair **must** be kept out of the way of any machinery or other moving parts or fire sources, but we do not care **how**. We will **not** take a ruler to it, this is **not** the regular Army, and if you are a **pilot** we assume you have **already** figured out how to accomodate your hair to your **helmet** by now."

Again, self-evident, or so they'd hoped -- but it was disheartening how many vets couldn't function, or not **well** , without the psychological buffer of the rules.

"If you **have** further questions on trivial matters **not explicitly covered** in your manuals, ask yourself how **you** would answer them if **someone else** asked you the same thing. If you answer **wrongly** , you will **ultimately** answer to Marshal Pentecost. Any **further** questions?"

The fact that the response to that was usually, "Do we get to **meet** him? _**Really?"** _ was somewhat embarrassing, but they very quickly got over that in the first fortnight of training (that was how long it seemed to take for recruits to go from inarticulate gushing to a mumbled "Please pass the coffee when you're done, Sir" in the breakroom, Tendo had stats and everything) -- **everyone** had to go through the Academy "crash course, as in how **not** to", just to get a good sense of how things weren't done in the PPDC, if nothing else -- and also because, sad to say, even the end of the world as humanity knew it hadn't helped everyone focus on the **important** things.

Which **wasn't** something you wanted to discover only when something started moving in the Breach!

So everyone no matter how many years' veteran of their chosen specialty got a chance to show that they were as qualified as they thought they were, **or** learn otherwise, and to brush up on any areas that needed it -- and to learn, or **relearn** , how to live in close quarters without killing your roommate but also to not pull the sort of stunts of rank and dominance that **would** kill, when your next breath might depend on your comrade not "forgetting" your existence, when every second counted.

The old ISS hands had been the ones who worked out how to **make** it work, because they'd already **done** it long ago, when every next breath DID depend on crosscultural teamwork in quarters even tighter than a Conn-Pod, **and** had done so while doing complicated scientific experiments, not least of all that of sharing their delight in the round blue world at their viewport so that Earth's children could learn again what a solitary treasure they had here...

_**We dropped a DUNE BUGGY on MARS,**_ Pentecost thought on that old and utterly pacific moment of terrestrial glory -- _**no matter WHAT, they can't take THAT away from us. If we fall here, if I fail these children and they kill us all, we will STILL have tossed a robot made of bird bones and tinfoil to safely unfold on the dusty plains of Mars -- and take tourist snaps for the folks at home. Humanity!**_

And the Jumphawk crews adjusting their calculations in anticipation of the Beckets' impending First Drop, and the courier crews doing routine maintenance all noted his grin, and were pleased that whatever high-ranking officialdom had said on the phone, the Marshal must have got the better of **that** exchange tonight!

**Author's Note:**

> the title comes from Wilfred Owen's "A Terre (being the philosophy of many soldiers)"
> 
> here is a reading by Kenneth Branagh  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3BmiCGObhGA
> 
> ( complete notes to follow )


End file.
